You might think he's doing something else. But in reality, he's learning how to sit/stay, and not doing a very good job of it (he eventually learned how to do so beautifully ... sort of ).

mercoledì 28 aprile 2010

Sunday Lunch, and the Pazzi Conspiracy

Wondrous pal Betsy spent the weekend with us. A long-time favorite of Tillie’s, she now has all three (especially Waldo, who becomes putty) eating out of her hand. In an odd, generous, and thrilling twist (usually guests bring wine (the American way) or dessert (the Italian way)) … Betsy did the American thing, but then some: she brought terrific wines and the main course – lamb – for Sunday lunch.

We began with apertivi outside (it being yet another beautiful day in Tuscany) and cold asparagus with a wasabi mayonnaise dip. We then moved indoors to eat the rest of the meal – brown rice pilaf and sautéed artichokes with pecorino and preserved lemons. Details of our Sunday lunch (excepting the lamb, which once again I overcooked) are below.

The rice dish made me wonder as I looked at the calendar this morning and realized that this was a big day in Florentine history: in 1478, Jacopo de’Pazzi, one of the brains behind the plot to kill the Medici, was captured in the Casentino, brought back to Florence, and was hanged from Palazzo Vecchio.[1] That was the easiest part of his woes, for once he was good and dead, Medici supporters had a field day desecrating his body.

You might wonder how this could possibly lead to rice? Wondered what kind of rice dishes were consumed in the 15th century.[2] Was, for example, risotto alla Milanese a popular dish (probably not). Maestro Martino, a fifteenth century chef and cook “book” author (in scare quotes, because these are manuscripts) provides some recipes, such as a torta di riso biancho (loaded with almonds and rose water; so little flour’s in the recipe that you have to wonder if he means “torta” in our twenty-first century conception), riso alla italiana (cooked with a “brodo grasso” (rich broth) and other things, riso in latte di mandorle (rice in almond milk), and riso in migliore modo (rice the best way): cook it in goat or almond milk. He then suggests adding a whole lot of sugar (think rice pudding).

So I guess Signor Pazzi knew some rice dishes.

Cold poached asparagus with wasabi mayonnaise dip

1 lb. thin asparagus, woody stems broken off
1 c. best-quality mayonnaise
3 T. sesame seeds, toasted
2-3 T. wasabi paste
1 T. sesame oil

Put water in a shallow sauce pan large enough to hold the asparagus stalks, and bring to a boil over high heat. Gently toss in the asparagus, give a quick stir; for al dente asparagus, take them out after about a minute (just when it returns to the boil), and drain them in a colander. Run cold water over to stop cooking process.

In a non-stick pan, toss the 3 T. sesame seeds over a medium-low flame. Stir constantly, as they burn quickly. As soon as they have a hint of golden hue, give them about a half minute more, and remove from flame. Mortar and pestle them roughly.

Combine the mayonnaise, toasted sesame seeds, wasabi paste, and sesame oil in a small bowl, and toss to combine.

Serve on a preferably white plate (makes the asparagus look really green) with the dip on the side.

Brown rice pilaf

Peas and pancetta are a classic Italian combination. The addition of coriander decidedly is not.

2 T. extravirgin olive oil
3 slices of pancetta, sliced thinly
1 small red onion, chopped
4 c. cooked brown rice
1 c. freshly-shelled peas
4 T. white wine, chicken broth, or water
1 handful of coriander, chopped
1 handful of mint, chopped
1 T. tamari or shoyu (or high-quality soy sauce)

Heat the oil in a heavy-bottomed saucepan and add the pancetta and red onion. Stir frequently so the combination doesn’t stick/burn. Once the pancetta has rendered its fat, and the chopped onion’s turned golden, add the brown rice and the (raw) peas. Tablespoon by tablespoon, add to the mixture, stirring constantly. Add only as much of the liquid as you need to keep the mixture from sticking.

When the peas are cooked through (in 2-3 minutes, usually) remove the pan from the flame, and add the coriander, mint, and tamari. Taste for seasoning, and serve.

Stir-fried artichokes with pecorino and preserved lemon

10 small artichokes, trimmed, chokes removed, and quartered
Juice of one lemon
3 T. extravirgin olive oil
½ preserved lemon, carefully de-salted, minced
Semi-aged pecorino, about a ½ c.
Sea salt and freshly ground pepper to taste
Handful of fresh majoram, coarsely chopped

Prepare the artichokes, and dump them in a bowl filled with water and the juice of one lemon while you prepare the rest of the recipe.

Heat 2 T. olive oil in a saucepan over a medium flame. Toss in the artichokes, and stir semi-constantly, ‘til cooked through. Remove from the heat, tip into a bowl, and mix in the preserved lemon. Be liberal with the freshly ground pepper, but taste before adding salt (as even after careful de-salting, they still often retain some residue).

Using a vegetable peeler, shave the pecorino on to the artichokes, add the marjoram, and toss to combine. Serve immediately (although it's good cold, too).

Serves at least 3. Dogs like this because of the cheese.

Welcome, Myrtle Bobbie (b. February 11, 2010) to our world. We all feel certain she’ll forget her first weeks on the planet in Tonawanda, New York and quickly adapt to life in the West Village.

Happy Birthday, Bets!


[1] The plot, on 26 April, was a partial success, as Giuliano, the brother of Lorenzo the Magnificent, died of multiple stab wounds in the Duomo. Another Medici supporter (Francesco Nori) was killed as well. Swift Medici retribution, however, ensured that there were a whole lot more dead Pazzi and co-conspirators than Medici.
[2]Platina speaks of Maestro Martino in his De honesta voluptate et valetudine, c. 1474.Several manuscript versions of Martino's work are known, one of which is Libro de arte coquinaria edito per la egregio e peritissimo maestro Martino coquo del Rev.mo S Cardinale de Aquileia. See Claudio Benporat, Cucina Italian del Quattrocento, Firenze, 1996.

domenica 25 aprile 2010

la festa della liberazione


On this portentous day in history (my, what a pretentious opening!), Pisa and Aragon signed a peace pact in 1327. Unclear what they were bickering about, but thrilled that they resolved their issues. In 1719, Daniel DeFoe published his highly unreadable Robinson Crusoe. In 1945, Italy was liberated by the Allies, thus bringing World War II, European Theater version, to an almost close.

It’s a national holiday here. Everything’s shut. Re-watch the English Patient, if you have it on video, or (re-)read it, it you have the patience. Praise Ralph Fiennes.

A lot of Americans died in Italy during World War II, including some 4,402 souls who are buried in an American military cemetery a short drive south of Florence. This cemetery is beautiful, haunting, and worth a detour. The tombstones carry the soldier’s name, his date of death. Tombs are distinguished by Christian crosses or Jewish Stars of David. Go there, and have a Saving Private Ryan kind of moment.

Even more are buried (7,861 of them) in Nettuno, near Rome. Spoke with a lovely man at the American Military Cemetery (the one out of Florence) who was unable to give me clear figures of casualties. He said that 39% of American dead are buried here (in Italy), the rest were returned to the United States. Wikipedia’s numbers are high (74,725 casualties, which presumably includes the wounded and maimed).

It’s pretty amazing, if you stop to think of it: all these young corn-fed boys, and Buffalo Soldiers from everywhere in the United States of America, coming here to fight and die to help preserve Italy (and the rest of Europe). American girls died, too, but their numbers are even less precise.

American Military Cemetery, via Cassia south, Località Scopeti (Florence), 055/2020020. (www.abmc.gov/cemeteries for information on how to find Nettuno).

Il Cimitero di Guerra del Commonwealth brittanico, S. Pietro a Quintole, southwest somewhere of Florence. No web site, but know that it’s there.

Il cimitero militare germanico, il passo della Futa, Mugello. Like the British cemetery, but with lots more buried there.

Happy Liberation Day, and thank you to all the Allied troops. Europe remains beautiful because you helped it be so.

venerdì 23 aprile 2010

Sorrel and Venetian Dogs, Two More Times with Feeling or




Déjà vu all over again.

The problem with gardening is that sometimes it’s hard to keep up. When things come into season, you suddenly find you have a lot of something, and you have to use it (or feel guilty by not doing so). Here’s where neighbors come in handy, but we don’t really have any. Or any who would want sorrel.

Because the weather’s been unseasonably cool (it’s raining cats and dogs as I write), the sorrel thrives. It’s the biggest it’s ever been in the years we’ve been ignoring it. Dorry Baird Norris, in the Sage Cottage Herb Garden Cookbook (Chester, CT., 1991), calls it “spring personified.” Yeah, and then some. (Her book is grand; my guess is that she didn't have a problem with too much sorrel.)

Patience Gray (1917-2005), in Honey from a Weed: Fasting and Feasting in Tuscany, Catalonia, the Cyclades, and Apulia (New York,1986) , lists sorrel in her “Edible Weeds” chapter. It certainly does grow like one. She provides some lovely uses for it. She quotes John Gerard’s the Herball or General Historie of Plantes (first published in 1597). His recipe calls for mashing sorrel raw, seasoning it with sugar and vinegar, and saucing roast meats with it (which might taste really good on a turkey burger). She also calls it by another Italian word (acetosella). She suggests melting it in butter, and then serving it with fish; chopping and mixing it with breadcrumbs, egg yolks, and butter as a stuffing for fish; simmering it in butter and then using it to top off steamed potatoes.

Sorrel is a magnet for snails and slugs, so do clean each leaf carefully. Wash it thoroughly, as it sometimes accumulates fine grit veneers, and do make a point of removing the leaves from the rib. (Know that this soup is good hot or cold; it works in winter, it works in July). When it’s cooked, sorrel turns from a bright, vivid green to a mud-colored hue (if hues cans be mud-colored). This is why the parsley’s important, as it makes the soup slightly less dour looking.

Lulu hovered near the stove while I was making this, eagerly lapping up stray sorrel leaves that somehow missed the pot. She’s weird.

Sorrel, Leek, and Potato Soup

10 oz. sorrel, carefully cleaned, leaves torn from ribs
3 leeks, white part only, thoroughly washed and diced
1 T. extravirgin olive oi
2 T. butter
1¼ lbs. potatoes, peeled and diced
5 c. vegetable broth
1 handful flat-leaf parsley, minced
1 bunch of chives, scissor-snipped
¼ c. creamy goat cheese
Borage flowers, if possible, for garnish

Melt the butter and olive oil in a deep-bottomed pot. Add the potatoes, the broth, and bring to a boil. Turn the heat down and let simmer for about 20 minutes. Add the sorrel and parsley, and stir to combine. Let cook for about 5 minutes, then stir in the goat cheese, and let cool slightly. Adjust for salt and pepper, and whizz in a blender. Ladle into bowls, and scissors snip the chives as garnish. If you’re lucky enough to have flowering borage, toss a couple of those lovely little blue flowers on top of the chives.

Serves a whole lot of people.

Sorrel Butter

½ lb. best-quality butter
2 heaping handfuls of sorrel
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste
Small freezer bags

Mortar and pestle the butter and sorrel in increments, adding the sea salt and freshly ground black pepper. Place 3 T. of the sorrel butter in as many freezer bags as it takes, and freeze. Remember that they’re there, and add a bag to scrambled eggs, a baked potato, or a vegetable soup.

Venetian Dog Update: Assiduous reader Martina Archly posed an important question regarding Venetian dogs. Dogaressa of the Broken Halo weighed in with a meaty comment: “[I] cannot comment on the similarity of Venetian persons to their Venetian dogs because said dogs generally seem to roam about solo, an assertion of their confidence and independent spirits … I hypothesize that it is an expression of their venezianita that they are comfortable in any campo in the city and apparently know their way back home. I have never seen a Venetian dog on a bridge, which might lead one to believe that they stick to their own neighborhoods, but I swear that just last week I saw one in Campo San Barnaba in the morning and saw him again near S. Polo later in the same day. These guys get around. Which might explain their features, no?”

Photographs of Venetian Dogs by Savvy New York Editor and Nichole Lau, August 2009.

lunedì 19 aprile 2010


April 19th is a problematic day in United States history. In 1775, the “shot heard ‘round the world” happened in Massachusetts.[1] In 1993, a whole lot of people died in Waco, Texas. Two years later, even more people died in Oklahoma City. Four years and one day later, students were gunned down in Colorado.

It’s also a feast day for a whole lot of saints – twelve of them, according to www.santiebeati.it.[2] Most of them met bad ends (as martyred saints often do).


In 1990, on the 21st of April, Tillie was officially born. We think. When she was plucked from the Free Puppy Truck that same year on July 21st , we were told that she was three months old. So, like Queen Elizabeth II, she has an official birthday.[3] She would be twenty – an unfathomable age for a dog – were she alive in two days' time.[4]

Tillie loved visiting one of her grandmothers in Pennsylvania. This grandmother was (and very much is) of the “I’ll Feed Dogs Just about Anything I’d Want to Eat” school. As Tillie recounts in her (unpublished) memoirs, “It was there that I first developed a taste for butter liberally smeared on pieces of toasted white bread. I would line up with assorted cousins and await my turn.”

Dogs love toast. In Dodie Smith’s epic Hundred and One Dalmatians (New York, 1956), a marvelous chapter (9) is called “Hot Buttered Toast.” We find Pongo and Missis lapping up hot buttered toast that the Spaniel, with great courtesy, has taken from Sir Charles, and then, while he’s not looking, passes to them. Sir Charles also unwittingly serves them tea, which perfectly complements their hot buttered toast. And then he thinks he sees Pongo and Missis (he actually does, but doesn’t realize it), and remembers his childhood dogs, and says, “I’m pretty close to the edge now—and quite time, too. I’m more than ready. Well, what a joy to know that dogs go on too—I’ve always hoped it.”

When Tillie moved to Italy in 1997, she had a cheeseburger every birthday until she died. Actually, we all did. From her memoirs: “ … my homesickness is purely gastronomic. And what I consider among the crowning achievements of American cuisine can be summed up in one word: Cheeseburger.” She continues: “It’s kind of tough to find a well-made one in this country, though they can be had. You could, if you wanted, succumb to the allure of McDonald’s and yes, I have indeed done so. A few years ago on one of my birthdays, I offered dear Bobo [Ed. note: one of Tillie’s much-loved companions] his first American burger. I even entered into McDonald’s to order it and, despite my frantic efforts to indicate otherwise (a sad, bewildered expression when I heard Her say to the girl at the counter “Two cheeseburgers” – you see, I’d been hoping – secretly – for two cheese quarter pounders) all we came up with were the two cheeseburgers. Now, they were good – do not get me wrong. I believe we both ate ours in the garden, pickle and all, in record time. (The careful reader might remember that I have a thing for pickles which I first discovered in that wonderfully sublime shrimp tramezzino that I gobbled in Rome.)”
It’s still tough to find a good cheeseburger in Florence. Tillie loved the burgers at Danny Rock, which always gets them right. A newish place has opened in the Oltrarno. Expensive, trendy, and it serves limp fries and mediocre burgers to Italians who simply don’t know any better.
Tillie would have sniffed at it disdainfully, before eating it all. A really good, tasty cheap burger can be had at i Cinque Tavoli (the Five Tables, and yes, that’s all there is).
Canadienne Red, Italian Scallion, the Stooges and I burger tonight.

Tillie’s book dedication ran as follows: “This book is for anyone who has ever fed me. I thank you.” As Sir Charles pronounces, dogs do go on.

Here’s missing you, Eric.

Danny Rock, via Pandolfini 13/r, Florence, 055/2340307
I Cinque Tavoli, via del Sole 26R, 055/294438
[1] Go to http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Concord_Hymn for Ralph Waldo Emerson’s moving 1837 poem.
[2] Beato Bernardo di Sithiu (d. 1182), Beato Corrado (Miliani) di Ascoli (d. 1289), Sant’Elfego (Elfege) of Canterbuy (decapitated in 1011), Sant’Emma di Sassonia (d. 1040), Sant’Espedito di Melitene (dies sometime in the third century a.d.), San Geroldo (santiebeati are not particularly forthcoming on this one), S. Giorgio d’Antiocha (d. sometime in the 8th and 9th centuries a.d.), San Leone IX (Pope, d. 1054), San Mappalico (dies in prison, of hunger, under the persecution of Decius), Santa Marta di Persia (simply martyred in 341), Beato Giacomo (James) Duckett), an English convert to Catholicism who’s hanged somewhere in England in 1602), and the most interesting San Varnerio (Werner) di Somewhere “è il prottetore dei vignaioli del Reno, della Borgono, e dell’Avernia” (the patron saint of wine-makers in the Rhein, Burgundy, and Auvergne).
[3] Interestingly, the Queen’s real birthday, like Tillie’s, is April 21st (b. 1926). Her official birthday is celebrated in Australia on the second Monday in June; in Canada on a Monday on or before May 24th; in New Zealand on the first Monday in June (which, according to Wikipedia.org, marks the opening of ski season), and in Great Britain on either the first, second, or third Saturday in June, when she officially troops the colors.
[4] “It’s the only haystack,” said the Spaniel. “All the same, keep your eyes on it all the time you run. I would come with you , but my rheumatism prevents me – and Sir Charles will need me to carry his spectacle-case down stairs. We are an old, old couple, my dear. He is ninety, and I – according to a foolish human reckoning that one year of a dog’s life represents seven years of human life – I am a hundred and five.” One Hundred and One Dalmatians, “Hot Buttered Toast.”
Portrait of Tillie, acrylic on canvas, by Amsterdam-based American artist Claudia Maria Clemente, 2008.

mercoledì 14 aprile 2010

Venetian Dogs








We were in Venice this past weekend ostensibly attending a conference. What we were really doing was eating and drinking with friends.

One friend, an architectural historian like her husband, created the idea/theory of the Venetian Dog. This theory of theirs (for her husband co-authored it) dates to Carnival in 1995. Characteristics of the Venetian dog include short legs, long body, alert gaze, funky tail, game attitude, can’t be a breed (so rule out pugs who fit the bill up to this point). They are sometimes stout, with low centers of gravity, which enable them not to fall off boats or other aquatic means of transport. They are probably what all dogs would evolve/devolve into if they continued to mate recklessly with other hybrid types. (Notice how much of these details re: the Venetian dog are, in fact, architectural, just like the theory's creators.)

A disclaimer: the dachshund is not a Venetian dog. It is a breed. Here’s a picture of a black and tan Venetian dachshund enjoying the sun. The next two examples, above noble dachshund, are more to type (though some could argue that the white dog looks suspiciously like a Bichon).

Dogeressa of the Broken Halo (the architectural historian) related this theory while swirling a dry white vermouth at the lovely enoteca/bacaro Bancogiro along the Grand Canal. Julia and I spritzed – that is, we drank spritzes, a most Venetian thing.[1] Many Venetian dogs strolled by.
An article in the April 12, 2010 gastronomy section of il Giornale’s (http://www.ilgiornale.it/) on-line publication announced “Sopresa: lo spritz veneziano ha ubriacato anche l’America (Surprise: The Venetian spritz has even inebriated America). It's made with prosecco, club soda, and Aperol, and has been re-named the Venetian Spritz in the United States. The more classic version replaces the Aperol with Bitter Campari.[2] Variations? Use Cynar, Martini, or Select instead of the Aperol or Campari. It’s thought that the drink was introduced in Venice by the Austro-Hungarians at the end of the 1800s, as they found Venetian wine too strong. (For a fine recipe, go to http://www.epicurious.com/).
At any rate, for the most part, the drink is orange. And you drink it, usually, on the rocks.

(Besides spritzing nicely, and pouring fine wines by the glass and bottle, Bancogiro has swell food. Many of us convened there for a lively lunch, downed the creamy baccalà, savored the monkfish wrapped in lardo topped with artichokes, and let the sea bream carpaccio with a yogurt/mint sauce melt in our mouths. We did all this while sitting outside watching the boats go by.)
(Another place to spritz nicely is at Cantinone già Schiavi: offerings seen at left with their tasty cichetti. No ice in this spritz, and it’s pinker rather than orange-y, but it’s still quite good. The aforementioned tasty cichetti, from left to right, are shrimp/lettuce/hard boiled egg, hard boiled egg with anchovies, mortadella roll stuffed with gorgonzola, a walnut, and lettuce (heavenly), pressed octopus crostino with shredded zucchini, and a crostino of baccalà mantecato (salt cod creamed with olive oil and spices.))
What better place to dog watch than St. Mark’s Square, surely teeming with Venetian dogs? We splurged at Florian, and ordered tea and toast. Pigeons outnumbered Venetian dogs.

A “toast” in this country is different from what we stick in the toaster. It’s an Italian grilled cheese sandwich, but uses no butter. Tillie loved to eat them all over town, especially at a now-defunct bar on Borgo Pinti which got it just right: hot, melted/slightly oozing cheese on lightly toasted bread (they do these things on a George Foreman-type grill here).

The toast at Florian was divine, perfectly toasted, cut in three longitudinal finger slices for sharing. Which we did, all three of us.

A Toast for Tillie

2 slices white bread, preferably Pepperidge Farm or something similar
2 slices high-quality, thinly sliced boiled ham
1 slice Fontina cheese

Preheat the oven to 375°F about 10 minutes before you think you’re hungry. Assemble the toast by placing the ham on top of one of the bread slices, add the cheese, and top with the other slice of bread. Bake in the oven for about 10 minutes, or until the cheese starts to ooze. (Flip it over after the first five minutes.)
Waldo approaches Venetian dog status. He sports all the qualifications. Zoe’s Person bridles at the thought that the brother and sister are Venetian. Perhaps his legs aren't short enough.

Bancogiro, Campo S. Giacometto, San Polo 122, Venice, 041/5232061.
Caffè Florian, Procuratie Nuove, Piazza San Marco, Venice, 041/5205641.
Cantinone già Schiavi, Fondamenta Nani, Dorsoduro 992, Venice, 041/5230034

Photographs thanks to Zoe’s Person and Erudite Friend (see below) aka Spritz Gal

[1] Do keep in mind that these drinks pack a punch. Said Erudite Friend seemed to think that they had low alcoholic content (they don’t) and drank too many of them. There was hell to pay the next day, in which she experienced the"wages of sin" phenomena.
[2] Campari is a concoction of bitter herbs, aromatic plants, fruit, alcohol, and water. It used to be colored with cochineal (crushed bugs, much used in setting red dye during the Renaissance) but praise the goddess, is no longer. Aperol is made up of bitter orange, gentian, rhubarb, and cinchona (a tree, and a good Scrabble word), and has about half the alcohol content as Campari.

domenica 11 aprile 2010

Jesus Christ is Risen Today (Last Week, Actually)


Easter began on the stroke of midnight last week as the local parish church bells began to chime. It was lovely, solemn, beautiful. Later that morning we listened to the Hallelujah Chorus which inexplicably sounds better at Easter than it does at Christmas. He shall reign, forever and ever, we suppose.

Many friends were coming for lunch at a too-small-for-all-of-us table in a room that barely could hold us. It didn’t much matter. The food tried, as much as possible, to celebrate what was available in the garden (not much, the first week in April). So those ever-present sorrel mayonnaise’d eggs kicked off the proceedings, followed by a most green risotto, and two roasted legs of lamb from a local shepherd (when we picked them up at a small town in the middle of nowhere, having ordered them a few days previously, it was slightly unsettling to flip through said shepherd's little photo album which included pictures of the fields where these sheep grazed (green, beauteous, Tuscan) and yes, pictures of their probable ancestors; at any rate, their lives were nice before they were no more).

The Scallion and I overcooked them in part, I think, because we followed U.S. recipes written for industrial farmed lamb. (This made only us and one other guest unhappy, as all the others opted for “well-done.”)(Wimps.)

This risotto is a bit of business. It’s imperative that all those fava beans get peeled, so put on – oh, Led Zeppelin loud or a Gregorian chant or Lady Gaga, or rope in an unwitting child (with promises of something that can be delivered), and peel them. The effort is well worth it. Gone is that slightly metallic taste sensation (can taste sensations be unpleasant? This one surely could be). Our garden yields sprouts right now, so clipping those from the arugula patch and those from the cress patch provided the flourishing and finishing touches. If you don’t have a garden, or immediate access to sprouts, garnish this risotto with pea shoots, which have yet to catch on in this country.

The Stooges constantly attended during preparation and consummation. Because we made too much (even with the occasional seconds), they greatly benefited at their Easter dinner following our Easter lunch. (The rest of the meal included minty garlic potato salad, asparagus with Hollandaise[1], and strawberry shortcake.)

Risotto with goat cheese, fava, and peas

8 shallots, peeled and finely diced
3 T. butter
4½ c. Arborio rice
2 c. good dry white wine
5 c. vegetable stock, heated
2 lbs. fresh peas, podded and put in reserve
3 lbs. fava beans, podded , peeled, in company with the peas
A scant half pound of young, creamy goat cheese, crumbled
Salt and freshly ground white pepper to taste
Arugula and cress sprouts, for garnish
(or pea shoots, a pile of them, arranged on top)

Melt the butter in a large, heavy saucepan, and heat the vegetable stock in a deep saucepan. Toss in the finely chopped shallots to the large heavy saucepan, and let melt, stirring constantly. Add the rice, and stir to coat. When thoroughly covered/coated with butter mix, add the white wine, stir, and let evaporate. Once this is done, tend the risotto—stirring all the while—by adding a ladle of broth, letting it evaporate, and then doing it many more times, with feeling, until the rice is cooked through (about 18 – 20 minutes).

At the penultimate ladleful, add the raw peeled fava beans and equally raw green peas, and stir. Toss in the goat cheese, and stir to combine. Serve piping hot from the stove, garnishing with sprouts or shoots.

Serves 12 humans and 3 dogs

[1] Why is this splendid and obscenely-not-heart healthy sauce called “Hollandaise” (i.e., Dutch; an adjective referring to a mostly not particularly interesting cuisine)? Alan Davidson’s Hollandaise obscure entry (the Oxford Companion to Food, New York, 1999) recommends turning to the inestimable Harold McGee for how it cooks and doesn’t curdle. The Larousse Gastronomique (New York, 1988) is more concerned with non-curdling than etymological lore. Mercifully, the penultimate Joy of Cooking (New York, 1991) sort of bails us out: “These famous French sauces (the first named for Holland and the second for the southwestern French region of Béarn, home of the beloved monarch Henri IV) …” Why Holland??? And, given the fact that Henri IV was married to Maria de’Medici (daughter of Francesco I) … ought we to dare to suggest that Hollandaise is, in fact, Florentine? We shouldn’t and won’t, and it should be noted that Béarnaise sauce (where, apparently Henri was from), unlike Hollandaise which includes egg yolks, lemon juice, salt/pepper/hot pepper sauce to taste, and clarified butter, has all those ingredients but adds dry white wine, tarragon, and shallots. From the not-to-be-100% relied upon www.wickipedia.org: “Hollandaise is one of the five sauces in the French haute cuisine mother sauce repertoire. It is so named because it was believed to have mimicked a Dutch sauce for the state visit to France of the King of the Netherlands.” I say plaudits to that Dutch head of state (we should find out his name, and saint him) and hm to the rest of it. Prophet Pellegrino Artusi (1820-1911) has a recipe for this in his Scienza in cucina e l’arte di mangiar bene” (somewhere in Italy, 1904), which means that upper-crust Italians were probably enjoying this sauce with boiled fish and other things well over a hundred years ago.

sabato 3 aprile 2010

Sorrel, the Garden Gift that Just Keeps Giving




A number of years ago, the Italian Scallion and I planted sorrel seeds from friends who’d smuggled them into Italy. We are, at best, desultory gardeners. Our neighbors down the street have been gifted with green thumbs; every time we drive by their lovely vegetable garden we turn beyond green with envy (their tomatoes are always healthy, happy and red when ours are sort of red and green, rotting, filled with other garden nuisances). The Scallion has a Chartreuse Thumb, and I have no thumb at all.

Thus the beauty of sorrel. It’s the culinary equivalent of geraniums: you’d have to work really hard to kill it. We have two patches, which we largely ignore, and it seems to thrive on our indifference Above please do note Waldo on the right, posing prettily with one of the ignored patches. Above, posing even prettier-ly is Lulu, backed by narcissi, jar of finished sorrel mayonnaise to her left.

In Italy, it’s called acetinosa, and it’s practically impossible to find here, maybe because it has a most slim shelf life. It wilts practically the moment you cut it. Janet Ross, in Leaves from our Tuscan Kitchen or how to cook vegetables (first published 1899, reprint New York, 1977), provides one recipe: you purèe it, cover it with butter, which then forms the basis of a soup, or you can add it to an omelette and, though she doesn’t suggest this, you can use it to sauce a mild-flavored white fish (such as ocean perch, sole, or cod). Ms. Ross (1842-1927) lived for a number of years outside Florence, in Poggio Gherardo, and either had it in her kitchen garden or had a friend who did. The Larousse Gastronomique (New York, 1988) reveals that it has only 25 calories/100 grams, and that it’s high in potassium, magnesium, and Vitamin C. The writers propose pairing it with shad, pike, or veal breast. Rose Gray and Ruth Rogers have many sorrel recipes in their River Café Green Book. These are Italianate but not truly Italian. In fact, most Italians don't know what sorrel is.

It’s a lovely leaf, and sort of resembles a really, really lemony spinach. It grows like a weed. You could be a garden moron and it would still thrive. It also makes a great mayonnaise, divine over hard-boiled eggs.

Happy Easter.

Hard-Boiled Eggs with Sorrel Mayonnaise

1 dozen organic eggs, hard boiled
An ample ½ lb. of sorrel
4 c. best-quality mayonnaise (like Hellman’s)
Juice from two lemons
An equally ample handful of flat-leaf parsley
1 scant t. ground white pepper
Pinch of sea salt
2 T. crème fraiche, optional

Ostensibly this would serve 12, a perfect number for an Easter lunch (think of the Apostles). However, some people really love this mayonnaise, and hoard their eggs. Judge accordingly. (Dogs go crazy for this, as I found after having accidentally dropped the wooden spatula used to stir the mayonnaise. Dogs went so crazy for it that they also licked splatters off clogs and trousers.)

Find a nice serving platter, cut the eggs in half, and arrange on said, yolk-side down. Throw all the other ingredients into a blender, adding the sorrel in increments to keep it from clogging the blender. Liberally pour the mayonnaise over the eggs, and eat immediately, or refrigerate ‘til you’re hungry.

McFizzled (Out): following the advice of an assiduous reader (who suggested McItaly be tried in other venues) … the campaign, it seems, is over. The McDonald’s at the train station at Santa Maria Novella is now pushing ranch chicken wraps (most tempting), the McDonald’s on via Cavour the same. McItaly has evaporated, gone with the wind/dust in the wind (to quote Margaret Mitchell/the lead singer from a band from the 70s called Kansas). Perhaps that explains the unmelted cheese on my burger – like, no one was ordering it? But to be fair to the Golden Arches – Asiago simply doesn’t melt very nicely. We had a most boring brown rice casserole with cubes of said. Even after 30 plus minutes in a 350° oven, the rice emerged piping hot, the Asiago in its cube-al state. Heated through, yes, but really not melted. Unclear if they rethink this campaign, or throw in the towel. What's clear is that it annoyed a whole lot of people.